Vanishing Act
by trufflemores
Summary: April 25, 2024.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** One interpretation, and by no means the only interpretation, of what will happen on the night of April 25, 2024. More fic will follow.

* * *

Barry's in trouble.

Iris runs as fast as she can, tearing across the street, her strides huge, full-tilt and fearless, flying over the black pavement. She can't stop to phone in and ask where Wally is, praying Jesse is with him. Reverse won't hesitate to take them out, but they stand a chance together. He could come after her and kill her mid-stride, but she doesn't slow down or seek shelter. Barry's in trouble.

She has to find him; that's her first priority.

Her chest burns before the tankers come into view, a wall of white flame ringing the eastern quadrant of the city square. The streets of lightning have vanished, but it presses in on her, all sides, the scent of speedsters burning before her. She reels back, halting abruptly at the edge of the sidewalk, and officers shout at each other over the roar of crumbling foundations.

A disoriented shadow in a recognizable tripolymer suit stumbles drunkenly into an alley, red fireflies trailing him. Iris' relief is breathless and enormous and short-lived: she runs to him and all but tackles him, and Wally blinks deliriously down at her.

"Iris?"

"Wally," she breathes, flinching at his left arm, torn down the middle and bleeding freely. "Oh my God."

"Where's Barry?" he asks, and she tears off her jacket and wraps it around his bleeding arm.

"You need to get to STAR," she tells him firmly, tying the knot.

"He was righ' here," Wally slurs.

She gives him a little push. "Wally, _go_."

He shakes his head and then a second streak appears, a golden light in shades of red and yellow, and Jesse says, "I've got him" and they're gone.

Iris breathes as evenly as she can, staring at the wreckage, compelled to draw closer to the heat pushing against her. _Barry_ , she doesn't dare say. He's still _Flash_. He has to be. Because when she accepts he isn't, he's gone, it's over, and she refuses to believe either possibility.

Peering inside an abandoned shop, she startles when she realizes it's the ice cream parlor they were at just days before. The interior is gutted, reduced to cinders. Even the metal refrigerators in the back yaw grotesquely. Everywhere she looks, the lightning has touched, and it has destroyed anything unfortunate enough to come into its path.

 _Reverse_.

She can only hope everyone got out first.

Moving down the street cautiously, she's half-afraid to peer inside other shops and bear witness to a Pompeiian massacre. The other half is too determined to proceed to let the possibility stop her.

To her relief, she never finds the performative tragedy. Wherever potential victims may have stood, only unidentifiable ashes remain.

Still no Barry. It's starting to hurt, how long it's been since she last saw him, _eight-minutes and counting_. She turns, her gaze panning across the street, and zeroes in on a crumpled-up doll in the street.

The world slows down, but she doesn't, sprinting towards him.

The street is slick with oil, but she doesn't stop. The wall of heat pressing against her is ignition-ready, she's covered in flammable material, and she needs to get _away_ , but she refuses to abandon the scene, not-without-him. In seconds, the struggling shadow materializes into a familiar speedster, bleeding out before her. His exhales are harsh even from a distance of thirty-yards-and-closing. She'd shout his name if her throat wasn't scorched, closing the gap and crashing down beside him.

Her cop's daughter mentality kicks in and without hesitation she slings his arm, too big for her, over her shoulders, and drags him, also too big for her, relentlessly away, bulldog powerful, hauling him from the center of the street. He stumbles with her, splashing and thrashing through blood and debris, and she tries to be fast and gentle, but she can be neither with his bulk pressing against her. Ruthless and slow, she persists. His erratic breathing forces her onward even when tired, trembling muscles threaten to give out.

She can't breathe by the time they finally hit the curb. Unceremoniously, she drags him into an alley, away-from-all-help, and she can't help but think that now is not the time for preserving his secret identity. If it's his life or his secret she will always choose the former. But she is here, and now she can't move, and neither can he, and the pavement pillows like basalt underneath them. She can't shout for help, can't even fish her phone from her pocket, so she leans over him, propped against the wall, and presses the lightning bolt over his right temple.

It's his panic button, she knows, and four agonizing seconds pass before Cindy appears, leaping out of a breach. Iris wants to sob with relief, but Barry is cold beside her, and Cindy doesn't take him with her, staring, breathing shallow, kneeling close to him and actually cupping his face. "Hey, speedster," she says, shaking his head from side-to-side, surprisingly gentle, and golden eyes flicker like fading lamps to greet her. "Stay with me. Okay?"

He nods once, dimly, the lightning crackling until only one eye is alit. Halfway between two worlds.

It's then, and only then, that Iris sees the deep gash in his left side. His hipbone shows. It has to be excruciating. She wants to throw up.

 _I'm sorry_ , she pleads, because she dragged him over asphalt. He looks at her, his lips twitching in a smile despite the agony writ plainly on his expression.

"S'okay," he says, panting in pain when Cindy helps him up. Iris scrambles up to flank him, and she's shaking hard, but she helps him stagger forward into the portal.

Then it's blindingly bright and they're back at STAR Labs and the comparative silence is loud, but virtually instantaneously the scene is splashed with color: Barry is bleeding all over the floor, a slaughterhouse spilling out onto the pristine linoleum, and Cisco throws up into a nearby trash bin before composing himself enough to approach.

They drag him onto a gurney and he's ashen-faced, clawing for conscious, and Iris gives him her hand and expects him to break it, setting her jaw expectantly, and is startled when he only squeezes it gently, rhythmically. _Help-me_ , he implores, repeating it with each press, words he can't force himself to say. _Help-me, help-me, help-me_.

He keeps a straight-lined jaw. After all these years, all-the-wear-and-tear, he's still stunningly young, not-a-day-over-twenty-five, and Wally is there and Barry grunts when Wally rests a hand on his stomach and pours Speed into him. Before Iris' eyes, the wound stops bleeding, knitting over. The hairs on the back of her arms rise in sympathetic horror when he finally breaks, a cauterizing howl reaching as deep into his chest as it can go, his back arching off the table.

Wally backs off and Iris feels how hot Barry's _hand_ is and realizes his side must be on fire, overwhelmed by the lightning doing its job, his human body straining to hold it all. She says his name over and over, BarryBarryBarry, and he lets go of her hand because he needs to break something and Cisco passes him a metal water bottle, snatched from a side table, and Iris knows and doesn't care for a second that they aren't cheap as Barry takes it and crushes it, denting it, demolishing it.

The spray of water from its container is lukewarm and sudden, but Iris is already covered in his blood, in oil, in the smoke and brick and mortar of a city on fire, and she doesn't care, climbing onto the space near him, bringing his head to her chest, cradling it there.

Hands shaking, he lets the crushed metal drop with a thunderous rapport onto the floor, breathing stressed as he confines it to his nose, mouth-shut, soldier-up. She says, "It's okay." Over and over and over until she's sick of hearing it and he's trembling, holding onto her. She's vaguely aware of Wally and Jesse conferring in a corner, and Wally's barely conscious, and she should check in, but she couldn't let go of Barry if _she_ caught fire. Jesse has it under control. She has to trust that.

They're a team of alphas: everyone holds their ground.

They have to. If any portion of the wall fails, the entire dam will collapse. The city needs them too much to let that happen.

Breathing shakily, Barry finally succumbs to the call of unconsciousness, going limp all at once. Reflexively panicked, Iris calls his name twice before letting it go. He's still alive. She can feel it, the warm, subtle pulse of lightning under his skin. _Still beating_.

Cisco asks in a ragged voice, "What happened?"

Iris hugs Barry closer to her, aching for him. Tears burn in her eyes. _Do not cry. Do not cry_. If she starts, she won't stop, and crying means the unthinkable, and he's _still here_.

"Reverse got him," is all Cindy says, quietly, reverently, and it feels like a eulogy.

 _I've got him now,_ Iris does not reply.

"We've gotta replace this," Cisco says, gesturing vaguely at the sea of red without looking at the floor. He looks stone-cast. Or almost-sick.

Cindy asks, "What's his type?"

"A positive."

Twenty minutes and a sizeable donation the nearest blood bank revives Barry, both eyes glowing a dim gold. "Hey," he husks, reaching unconsciously for his hip, for the wound, and Iris diverts his hand. "'m okay," he promises, stroking her calf, and she does not let him see her cry. "S'okay." Glancing over at Cisco, huddled in the corner, he redirects his focus. "Where's he?" he rumbles.

They all know he means Reverse. "Gone," Cisco says weakly. "Hopefully for a very long time."

Barry exhales. He shakes his head, sitting up slowly. "Barry," Iris warns, but he insists.

"S'okay."

Cindy folds her arms, standing off to one side. "What happened?" she asks, brusque, military.

Barry grimaces. "Caught me off guard," he admits. "We were …" All at once, the desire to tell sinks out of his shoulders, and he shakes his head. "I wasn't watching him," he apostrophes.

Cindy looks like she wants to press.

From his corner, Wally interjects, "You saved my life."

Barry blinks and turns to look at him. "You good?" he asks.

Wally grimaces. "Are you?"

Barry shakes his head. Then he stands and a horrible strangled noise escapes him as he puts his weight on both legs, pitching over and gasping in pain. Cisco helps him up as he insists, "It's okay, _I'm okay_ " like he must convince the universe before he can feel it. Iris helps Cisco corral him back onto the gurney, keeping a hand on his arm and a lid on her emotions.

"Barry," she warns.

His jaw tenses like he wants to speak, but he holds his silence. Exhaling, he leans back into her. She isn't expecting it but quickly regroups, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoulders from behind, holding on. His Speed-warmth is dim and shaking and hurting, but it's still there, still his, and resting her chin on top of his head, she has to hope it's enough.

"Wherever he is," she promises, "we'll figure this out. Okay?"

He nods. She can feel his fatigue like it's her own. He needs time. The shaking hasn't died down completely; she can still feel it, subsurface, aching for acknowledgement, release, reprieve. She can't give it to him, but she does what she _can_.

She presses a kiss against his hair. "We'll figure this out," she repeats softly, his ears alone.

That night, cradling a sleeping Flash in her arms, she writes the final draft of a soon-to-be-headliner article:

 _FLASH MISSING: VANISHES IN CRISIS_.

( _It'll give us time,_ she knows, even though she also knows it'll torment Flash's fans. _It'll give him time to heal._

 _Eobard won't come after a missing target._ )


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes:**

I debated making this a separate story or a continuation of this one, and ultimately I chose to keep it in the same story.

First chapter was exclusively Iris' POV, this chapter features Barry's predominantly and Iris' in the last segment.

I hope you enjoy my newest multichapter!

* * *

"FLASH MISSING: VANISHES IN CRISIS."

Singh drops the paper on a desk. Addressing a room of officers, he asks, "Anybody care to play hide-and-seek with Central City's finest?"

Several officers smile; one chuckles. To be fair, it's the twelfth time Barry has officially or privately gone missing; his grocery list is comprehensive. Four kidnappings, sixty-three jaunts to other Earths, and two cases of mistaken identity and arrests in other timelines fill out the story of his heroics in the twenty-first century. Five events were disruptive enough that they were picked up on by bloggers back home, and one extended absence made the headlines. His still-standing status is proof that their nonchalance isn't misplaced.

For him, still-standing is a relative state of being; he can't tolerate being on his feet for more than thirty seconds at a time. To mask his infirmity, he chose a chair off to one side on the main floor and busied himself with the quarter-mile of paperwork stacked on the desk in front of him, ostensibly distracted, privately soaking in every word Singh says. Singh knows he's listening and wants Barry in on it, but the rest of the officers could be forgiven for thinking the twelve-year vet is just an oversized intern filling out paperwork.

Singh is halfway through a "Let's keep our eyes and ears open" advisory when his radio goes off. His sobriety sets Barry off. Gaze lifting and fixing on the captain, he waits, all sense of distraction forgotten. "There's a hostage situation at the bank," Singh announces. His gravity twists Barry's stomach. "At least two casualties, eighteen civilians."

 _Where?_ Barry wants to ask, but "The Bank" can only refer to one: CCB, on Walcott and third. He's on his feet before the wave of dizziness can catch up to him, staggering when it hits and biting back a shout as his weight bears down on his left leg. Singh barks in his direction, "Stay here" as he and a group of officers hit the elevators.

 _I could be there before you get to the lobby of this building_.

White-hot pain ziplines from hip to throat, forcing him back into his chair before the blackout wave reaches his head. He can barely breathe, clutching the desk in front of him, straining to appear normal, unaffected. Strapping up, Officer DeCacio asks in passing, "Allen, you okay?"

Barry nods and forces out a "Never better." He straightens and black dots dance across his vision. DeCacio is already gone, disappearing in the flurry of activity.

Barry's phone rings. Fishing it out, he greets, "I heard."

" _Kid and Quick are on it_ ," Cisco says. He's distracted, clearly holding two conversations at once, and Barry's heart rate picks up just on the periphery, game-on. " _Standby_."

Barry's teeth hurt from how hard he clenches his jaw. "I'm sorry," he replies, ending the call. Switching his phone to silent, he's on his feet in less time than it takes DeCacio to step inside the elevator, on the scene before his phone goes off, unnoticed. He doesn't have the suit on, but he's learned how to move without it, been forced to negotiate other worlds without it. He keeps his breathing cool to keep the fire in his hip from staggering him. He knows Singh knows he's there, because Singh has a sixth sense for him, but Singh doesn't have time to find him. Phasing through a wall, he Flashes into the bank, reappearing in a pitch-black storage room.

His strategy is simple ( _damage control_ ), but an unexpected complication arises immediately: donning a janitor's outfit _hurts_. He almost forgoes the pants when the pain spikes, but he forces himself through it. Satisfied, he pushes the door open.

He can hear Cisco calling him off from here, but he doesn't check his phone, carrying a large broom with him and sweeping the polished floors in rhythmic, noisy swishes. _Come on_ , he fishes, seeing red with every step, biting the inside of his cheek hard. _Come on_.

Seconds before impact, he feels his assailant approach, world slowing down as they make their move, and Barry could turn and watch but he doesn't dare Flash, and so he takes the knockout punch to the back of the head without complaint.

Coming to with his hands tied behind his back, he looks around the windowless room. There are other hostages nearby, several with visible injuries, two unmoving in the center of the room. Barry grimaces, pushing himself up, and hears a cool voice say, "I keep this as civil as you do."

He can't see them, but he senses four moving bodies – make that six; Kid and Quick are in the basement – and twenty stationary civilians. Courting disaster – _do not pass out, do not pass out_ – he projects calm into the room, willing his own confidence to infuse his trembling companions. _We've got you_ , his Speed-warmth says. _It's going to be okay_.

Terse negotiations transpire between his negotiator and Singh. Despite the calm he's projecting, the air remains charged, get-the-hell-out-of-my-face. Barry knows a trapped animal is a dangerous animal, regardless of its preexisting temperament. Working with that, he slides a thumb against the panic button on his watch. _I'm here_.

They don't need him, not really – they're pros, casing the situation and buying time with Speed, planning their points of attack – but when the lights go out and real bullets spray across the room, Barry knows he's up to bat. He doesn't have night-vision and without his suit he's effectively blind, but the bullets flash when they discharge, and he charges towards them, a real-time bat-out-of-hell.

Wally has him covered, disarming both shooters in slow motion, moving at maybe two-thirds of Barry's pace, while Jesse, in sync, phases out hostages into an adjacent room. Barry knows he's pushing himself too-fast-too-hard but it doesn't stop him from phasing four line-of-fire hostages through the adjacent wall, one sweeping motion that carries them out of range. There's shouting, then, as the world crackles back into focus, hip bleeding with sickening enthusiasm across the marble floor, and Barry can't stop a howl of pain.

In six seconds, everybody's out, and police storm through the doors. Before Barry can even form a proper breath, there are a pair of hands under his arms and he's dragged down, down, down.

He never even hits the floor: the world drops out beneath him and he _falls_.

. o .

No one IDs Barry Allen at the scene.

A civilian's jacket is used to sweep up the blood before anyone can remark on it. The jacket itself is promptly burned. Its owner never even misses it, too relieved to be free to care.

Quick stays to assist with the aftermath, but Kid vanishes. He's usually a showstopper, sticking around because _everybody_ wants to meet him, but he's gone before anyone can confirm he was even there. A sense of cool agitation indicates Quick would rather be elsewhere, too, but she takes her time, staying with the scene. Somebody has to. Speedsters have a reputation to uphold, and seeing a rescue through is just part of it.

The two casualties make it with concussions; nothing time won't heal. The rest are shaken, but everyone is okay.

The media calls it a rousing success. Makes a good story. Unseats Flash's headline in less than twenty-four hours.

Surely, if Quick and Kid are still around, all is well with Flash.

. o .

"Alex was healthy when he died."

Barry frowns, tilting his head in Cindy's direction without opening his eyes.

"Didn't have a scratch on him. And then Abra Kadabra shot him." She asks in a low voice, "How long do you think you'll survive in the field with an injury like that, Allen?"

"Who's Alex?" Barry asks. His words crack. Speaking hurts – a lot. He grimaces and tilts his head back towards the ceiling, breathing in slowly through his nose.

Cindy says, "My former partner." A beat. "A speedster."

Barry blinks slowly. His vision is dark, like it hasn't fully loaded, and he notices an IV linked up to a blood bag in his right arm. He shuts his eyes again and exhales. "How did Abra Kadabra get him? Speedsters are—"

"Fast. I know." Cindy places an unwrapped granola bar in his hand. He curls his fingers around it and lifts it to his mouth, chewing it with methodical care. "He liked to take it slow. Wouldn't rush into a shower, let alone a dangerous situation. I had my back turned to Abra and Alex saw what was going to happen. So he made the one and only quick decision of his life. He threw himself in front of a grenade, it imploded, and he died."

Barry opens his eyes and tilts his head to look at her. He can't find words. Cindy shakes her head. "I don't expect an apology for his death. It's not your fault." Seriously, she adds, "But it will be Iris' grief on your hands if you die. Are you prepared for that?"

On cue, Iris steps into the room, exhaling his name and apologizing. "I had to cover the story," she explains, wrapping him up in a gentle hug that hurts, but he cannot bring himself to dissuade her. "Hi."

"Hey," he rasps against her shoulder, hugging her gingerly around the waist. "How long was I out?"

"Two hours, give or take."

Barry's shoulders relax a little. "Where's Wally?" he checks in.

"On patrol. He's okay."

"Jesse's—?"

"Grown," Jesse quips lightly. "I can take care of myself."

Iris pulls back and Cindy lets her have the chair, stepping back. "How are you feeling?" she asks.

Barry makes a noncommittal noise. He doesn't like lying, but he dislikes disclosing painful truths more. "Alive."

"OH, there he is." Barry grimaces and forces himself to sit up fully as Cisco storms into the room. "You. Yes. You're lucky I don't turn off your Speed."

Something flares up warningly in Barry's chest, ready-to-fight.

Jesse diffuses, "Cisco."

Cisco exhales in a growl, closing the gap and hugging Barry firmly. "I'm not losing you," he warns. "Okay?"

Barry can't breathe, but he nods, and Cisco lets go.

"You lost a lot of blood," he explains. "You went into shock by the time Wally got you here."

Barry doesn't remember it, but he nods, actively listening. "Okay."

"You're going to ruin the blood bank if you keep this up," he warns. "The headline buys us time. You're supposed to use it."

"I can't ignore crime," Barry replies.

"You'll ignore lots of crime if you're dead."

"Cisco—" Barry begins, seeking middle-ground.

"He's right," Jesse cuts in, and Barry sighs. "We're a _team_ , Barry. Wally and I can handle it."

He works his jaw, but he doesn't have an immediate response to that. "Take it easy, speedster," Cindy advises, walking away. "I've gotta catch up with the Accelerated Man." She disappears through a breach.

One down, three to go. Jesse takes her cue and Flashes off, undoubtedly to check in on her partner-in-crime.

Cisco and Iris stay put.

"You're not replaceable," Iris says, and he knows that, but when he looks at her it aches in his chest. _You're not replaceable to me_. "Okay?"

He nods. Glancing at Cisco, Barry feels him sigh before Cisco obligingly unhooks him from the IV. He doesn't try to stand, and some of the tension between them eases. "I don't have a death wish," he tells them.

Cisco says quietly, "If you saw what I saw, you wouldn't be so sure."

Barry shuffles forward and Iris gets an arm around his back. "I know," he permits, and places weight gingerly on his feet, grimacing. "But I have to keep moving. I have to, Cisco," he insists, when Cisco opens his mouth to argue. "It's not my call."

When he shifts to standing, Cisco joins him on his opposite side, steadying him. He's grateful for it, leaning more of his weight on Cisco than he intends, a cold sweat on his brow. His left leg trembles. Pain tries to drive him to the floor, but he holds his ground.

"I have to," he tells them, and himself, and carries on.

. o .

" _We do what we can_ ," Jesse Quick quotes in the piece Iris West-Allen writes early that afternoon, " _however, whenever, and wherever we can_."

Barry rests with his head on her thigh as she rereads the article on her phone to herself, a hand tangled in his hair and stroking softly. His lightning hurts, a brambling pain that spurs her into the darkness, seeking a soft grass to untangle itself in, a field to shed its painful cape of thorns. His breathing is shallow and steady, false-calm, like a drowning man's stillness as he sinks beneath wave after wave.

"Talk to me," she encourages quietly, unable to take the silence, hand stilling in his hair. Barry looks away like he wants to be anywhere-else, and she knows he could be, faster than she can blink, but he doesn't move.

"He's still out there," he says at last. Iris doesn't ask who; she already knows. _Reverse_. "He's gonna hurt people to draw me out."

Iris' stomach hurts. "Wally and Jesse—"

He blinks up at her, golden-eyed. "Iris."

She knows. Even with their help, he barely survived the encounter. And, she knows, a hand settling on his side, just above his left hip, he's still recovering. Barry couldn't handle him with their help; they don't stand a chance without his. "You're still human," she says, stroking his hair, golden-eyes sliding shut. "Even you have limits."

"I can't let him hurt anyone," he says, breathing deepening. She's losing him, she knows, but it doesn't worry her. He'll come back. He always does. She just hopes he'll be safe in sleep.

Out loud, she tells him, "I can't let him kill you," and Barry doesn't reply.

" _It's not about the glory_ ," Quick admits in the same article. " _It's about being human. If we didn't act, we wouldn't be. We have to help._

 _"_ _Even when we know we might not win, we have to try._ "


	3. Chapter 3

_"_ _I know what you want."_

 _"_ _Do you?" Eobard turns with an easy smile. "You're quite lively for someone who's supposed to be dead."_

 _Barry steps forward across the scarcely-lit pavement. Even in the blurry orange light, he limps visibly. "Missing," he clarifies. "Presumed dead."_

 _Eobard's smile holds as he tilts his head to one side, watching him. "What do I want, Flash?" he asks coolly._

 _Barry halts, thirty feet away. "Freedom from me."_

 _"_ _Your intelligence was always legendary," Eobard replies caustically._

 _"_ _Not – this me," Barry dismisses with a wave of his hand. "You're not my Eobard. And I'm not your Barry." Limping forward, he says in a soft voice that still carries, "Both of us, we're hijackers. We stole this universe. It doesn't belong to either of us. After everything you've done? I don't know who it belongs to anymore."_

 _"_ _You are not blameless." A lion's snarl contorts Eobard's features. "You have more blood on your hands than you can begin to understand, Flash."_

 _"_ _I know." A long beat. They square off, close enough to kill, now. Winner-take-all in this game of victor-strikes-first. "This game is never going to end, Eobard."_

 _"_ _With you, it will." Invisible claws unsheathe as Eobard shifts his stance, leaning predatorially forward. "Any last words?"_

 _"_ _Elle died when you were fourteen."_

 _Eobard blinks. Reels. Says in a halting, abortive voice, "How could you possibly—"_

 _"_ _I told you. This universe, it doesn't belong to us. You're not my Eobard._ _ **And I'm not your Barry**_ _."_

 _Eobard takes a step back. Barry presses on, insistent. "I know it destroyed you. It destroyed your father. Once both parents were gone, what was left? A legacy to reach for. You'd already seen mine, my whole_ _ **life**_ _laid out before you." There's a real bite to his voice, a vicious, unforgiving thing. "I couldn't defend myself against you because I didn't know you were coming. I was the perfect target. Other versions of me, we were defenseless against someone we couldn't have possibly anticipated. You killed them in cold blood."_

 _Eobard says nothing, but he plants his feet and holds his ground. His eyes glow red. "You always take it so personally," he sneers. "I never needed to know who was under the mask. I was going to hunt you down no matter who you were. It was never about us, Barry. It was about_ _ **The Flash**_ _."_

 _It's all over, that fast._

Cisco jerks upright, heart pounding, and reaches for the panic button on his phone, pressing it without thinking. He's already up and out of bed because something's-wrong-something's-wrong, and then a yellow streak Flashes to a halt and rests both hands on his arms, eyes still smoldering gold. "What's wrong?" Wally asks in a familiar metallic warble.

"Barry," Cisco gasps, and Wally frowns, and disappears.

He tries to visualize the street exactly, an idea if not an address. It doesn't matter that it's imperfect: he opens a breach and steps through it and finds the dead Flash lying on the pavement.

He can't think, gasping and staggering forward, I-have-to-help crowding out all other thoughts, but it's already too late. It's always too late.

For some Barry, no matter how fast he is, no matter how clever or quick or nimble he is, he will always be too late.

Alone and shaking, he approaches the quiescent speedster, a lion with its back broken, twisted unmoving in the street. There are no witnesses. The sleeping residents of the homes a quarter-mile away don't even see at the sight of their dead hero.

A soft and excruciatingly familiar voice says, "Cisco…"

He starts sobbing and a Barry-who-cannot-be draws him into a tight hug, a mix of grief and horror and surprise washing over them. Wally is talking in a low voice and Barry is shaking his head, I-don't-know-I-don't-know, and Cisco is afraid his mind or world will break before he finds steady ground, but he clutches Barry and sobs, I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry-I'm-sorry.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay," Barry promises, and he's holding Cisco so he can't see the body but it's still there, and it's like Dante, it's like Dante, a pleading admonition telling him to not look but he can't look away.

Wally has the grace to say, "We have to call someone" and that's how Joe arrives twenty minutes later, parking an unlit cruiser on the scene.

"Oh my God," are the first words out of his mouth, and then he says, " _Barry_ " and there's relief and aching pain there, and Cisco can't let go because if he does Barry will disappear, if he does Barry is _gone_ just like the one on the ground and he pulls away because he has to throw up or die.

Joe has Barry in a rib-breaking hug the second Cisco lets go, and he makes a soft sound that is _don't let me go_ even though it hurts, and Joe obliges. Away from them, Cisco shakes, hunched over his knees.

When he's able to stand again, Wally gives him his shoulder, bleeding strength and apology. "We should—" he starts, and stops, unable to proceed. His gaze is locked on the cadaver. _Cadaver_. It's supposed to be clean, clinical, and somehow it's worse, desiccated and stark, _cadaver_ , like he never was, like he's worse than something that was.

He feels every hair on the back of his neck stand and doesn't even ask or turn or start to speak, just lets out an animalistic roar and blasts an impulse so hard he knows it could shatter bone, and Eobard gazes with dark, wide-eyes at him from the shadows, strength and lightning flickering all at once. He collapses, not-dead, please-please-please-not-dead-he-can't-kill-someone-he-can't, and Wally sweeps in without a word, capturing him.

The two of them vanish and Wally reappears, looking both tired and torn, a mixture of profound relief and raw, aching sadness radiating from him. Cisco doesn't have to ask to know where he took him. _Pipeline_.

"We should get him off the street," Wally says at last, and it feels final, like shooting a lame horse, _let's get him away now_ , and neither Joe nor he approach Barry's doppelganger.

It's Barry himself who finally staggers forward, expressing the same pained limp, left-hip, and Cisco doesn't want to know what the age difference is because it doesn't matter. They look the same. They _are_ the same.

Were.

Kneeling with an audible gasp of pain, Barry lifts his own doppelganger and slings him heavily over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, walking out onto the dusty field.

Twenty yards in, he finally halts, and lays his doppelganger down in the grass. Joe joins him a second later, kneeling beside him, a heavy hand on Barry's shoulder. He says something Cisco cannot hear and Barry sways into him, leaning against his strength. Wally joins them and folds onto his knees as though in prayer, eyes closed, and says nothing to either of them.

Observing the scene afar, Cisco feels intrusive as he approaches. He keeps hoping to wake up, pinching his arm, but the cold night air is relentless, and the scene stays sharply in focus. Unable to come closer, he says, "Barry," and the living Barry looks up at him.

With obvious effort, Barry stands, and Cisco catches him under the arms when he stumbles. _I've got you_ , his movements say where his voice cannot. _I'm here_.

Barry squeezes his shoulders in a silent promise of reciprocity.

Then, with a gentle push, he says, "Close your eyes and count to fifty." He looks at Wally, who frowns, and repeats, "Close your eyes. Count to fifty."

Joe opens his mouth to protest, and then they hear it, a low rumble of thunder on the distant horizon, and panic threatens to stop Cisco's heart. He closes his eyes fiercely and counts.

It's over in less than a second. Barry drops with such suddenness that Cisco thinks he's dead, no-no-no, but he's still breathing, harshly, a quiet whine of pain tapering off as he processes his audience, clenching his jaw and insisting through his teeth, "'m okay."

"What happened?" Joe asks.

Barry shakes his head, and Cisco can feel the fatigue weighing him down, a heavy thing. "Hey, Bar," he urges. "Stay with me."

It almost doesn't process that the other Barry is gone, he's so focused on the one before him, but then he sees the empty space and feels an ache in his gut. _He's gone_. "Stay with me," he repeats mindlessly, and Barry leans his forehead against the earth and exhales Speed.

Hand on his back, Cisco says it a third time, because he needs to.

"Stay with me."

. o .

It's called the Black Flash.

When it arrives in dark, dignified dress, it acknowledges the living Barry with a piercing look – _what have you done?_ – before shifting its white-eyes to the speedster on the ground. Stepping forward, it kneels. With almost gentle hands, it cradles the other Barry to its chest. From the depths of his mind, Barry hears the Speed Force say, _Ours_.

Then it walks, carrying the other Barry with it, and vanishes.

The second it is gone, he crumples.

Cisco's voice carries through the fog of consciousness, a simple, powerful mantra.

 _Stay with me…_

. o .

Barry wants to tell Iris.

 _Someone has to tell her her Barry is gone._

Standing across from him in the Cortex, sleepless and sick, Cisco clenches his jaw. "It's too risky."

"Cisco," he insists. "Please."

He'll go with or without Cisco, Cisco knows. He wants to say no and mean it, to keep Barry in one world, to protect this Barry, _his Barry_ , and it doesn't matter how closely or distantly their origins are. He's Cisco, and this is Barry. Losing him is unthinkable. Losing him twice in one night is too dangerous to contemplate.

But Barry looks at him with aching, I-need-to eyes, and Cisco knows he has to, knows _why_ he has to, and still he hesitates.

 _I have to, Cisco. It's not my call._

It's not. It's his and the Speed Force's. _Their_ call.

And neither can let this go.

Cisco breathes out through his nose and says in a low voice, "I want Cindy here, in case something happens." _In case something goes wrong._

Barry nods once, apologetic and tired.

"Thank you."

. o .

Barry is gone for so long then Cisco thinks he might not come back.

An hour passes.

Then two.

By three _their_ Iris shows up.

She looks at them and firms her jaw because she knows, she knows, she knows, this is her familiar swan song, _Barry always runs away_ , and still it is painful. She takes a seat, endowing her chair with throne-like authority, and waits.

They all wait. At some point even Jesse stops by, and asks where's Barry, and Wally takes her aside and explains it all in a blur of speech too fast for human ears to comprehend. She doesn't say anything, looking around, taking it all in.

 _He's coming back_ , all of them and none of them reply.

Truthfully, they don't know.

Cindy shoulder-checks Cisco lightly. "He's okay," she promises, and she can't possibly know, but he nods anyway, needing to believe it.

By sunrise, he feels sick with anticipation and dread. Still, he doesn't surrender his guard or his hold on the tether between Barry and him. It's not a tangible thing, more like the idea of a thing: love in its metaphorical sense, or hope in its infinite elusive definitions, something to hold two people together. It's a trust fall where he must simply be ready, at any moment, for contact, with no idea when it will come.

When it does, he's so relieved he could cry, or let go of the rope entirely, but he holds it firm instead and Barry steps out of a breach.

His limp seems heavy, exaggerated, and Cisco realizes it's because he's not hiding it. Cisco's chest hurts, but he doesn't speak, just lets his hand drop at last. Iris steps forward and sweeps Barry into a hug and holds onto him, and he presses his closed mouth against her shoulder and holds her, and it's almost too personal for Cisco to watch.

When Barry holds out an arm without letting go of her, Cisco recognizes the invitation. He waits for someone else to step forward, Joe, or Wally, or even Jesse, but they wait, recognizing the order of the pack, and Cisco accepts the silent invitation.

Between the two of them, he feels safe.

They're a team. Together, he dares to hope they're unstoppable.

. o .

 _"_ _Old friend." The older Barry says it with a hint of a smile. He sits with obvious effort next to the grave and rests his back against its side. "I'm sorry it came to be this way."_

 _On the headstone, a simple epitaph is carved:_

 _EOBARD THAWNE_

 _2151-2202_

 _"_ _Let's be better next time," he says. "Life is too short for this."_

 _Getting up, he walks off, and—_

Cisco doesn't need to follow him to know he isn't alone.

Breathing easier, he watches the younger version lean on a cane – _just for a day, just for a while_ – and look at Eobard behind the glass.

 _Let's be better_ , he thinks, and dares to hope.


	4. Chapter 4

Left alone, Barry eats, Barry sleeps, and Barry takes care of himself.

But he is not left alone. Relentlessly, around-the-clock, the city needs him.

Iris watches it eat him alive, day-after-day until she finds him at the precinct sleeping with almost desperate abandon at his desk, face drawn. Singh notices, but his admonitions fall short. If Barry doesn't go to work, then he doesn't slow down at all. Better he doze at the desk than keel over from exhaustion in the field.

He's running towards it, chasing collapse. Try though they might, they can't get through to him. _You have to rest_ , they say.

But the city pays in lives, and it's too costly to quit.

Just shy of sunset on the fifth day since the Crisis, she finds him asleep at his desk, again. He hasn't responded to any of Cisco's calls, and Iris knows Cisco is scared because she's scared, too. It relieves a great weight from her shoulders to see him again.

Padding silently across the floor, she encourages him to stand up, c'mon, Bar, and he groans and obliges, too tired to form an argument. He tries to sink to his knees, but the floor is not soft enough for him, not anymore; never was, really, but what was tolerable before is impermissible now. She keeps an arm around his waist, no, baby, and grabs his cane from its place against the wall.

The simple act of grasping it brings him back to attention. His eyes brighten; his shoulders fall back. He looks ready to fight, but he radiates fatigue. She can feel the lightning under his skin, but a mile of ice stands between them. Winter encroaches, and she isn't sure it's the kind that retreats.

He's thirty-five, but he feels ancient, like he's pushing two hundred. Sometimes speedsters seem ageless. Other times they strike her as young, Peter Pan-like. But limping visibly, Barry feels old.

Still his city knocks at his door, day-and-night, dragging him out into the fray.

As thunder growls in the darkening distance, a tarmac city awaits rain. Iris stays close to Barry's side, falling into step beside him on the sidewalk. She takes in the sight of revitalized streets which scarce days before harbored fallout destruction, glowing almost purple in the shadow of the storm, unscarred.

Speedsters work quickly; Jesse and Wally repaired the most significant damage to the city in less than three days' time. Barry, she knows, contributed a substantial piece when none of them were watching him, hacking and disabling the suit's tracker so he could roam the city in peace, a true guardian angel, no-one-knows-where-he-goes.

To curb Barry's Samaritan appetite, Cisco split the comm channels into two frequencies, leaving Barry on the old line and switching Wally and Jesse over to a new one. The hope was that without a direct link to the action, Barry might stand by. Or, one could dream, he would realize what they had done and trust their good judgment. Flying blind was debilitating for most people; maybe it would be strong enough to deter Barry.

Iris knew it then and she knows it now: no deterrent is strong enough to keep Barry from his city.

Even without the feed, Barry walks with satellite purpose, tuned in. White lightning illuminates their panorama; Barry's eyes flash silver, like a photographic film processing in slow motion. The optical shift holds steadier than the storm, Barry's lightning straining with glacial intent towards its final resting place.

By the first crackle of thunder, he's gone.

. o .

Before modern languages evolved, humans still spoke to the earth.

Barry knows the songs of that vast-wandering-disconnected people. He knows how they were unaware of their shared history but cognizant of a shared state of being with the stars, and rivers, and storms. Their songs and dances and legacies were engraved only in the present moment, destined to die like embers in a fire. The storm shakes awake a deep part of him, urging him to pay attention. He keeps his eyes on the skies as another streak of lightning silvers a path from floor to ceiling of the world, eyes alight with it.

And then because he can and because his own lightning lunges with irresistible glee towards it, he takes off, chasing eternity.

. o .

Barry doesn't come home that night.

Iris waits with quiet expectation for him until sometime in the early morning. She dozes off, awakening to the patter of rain trickling feebly across the windows. _Can't get a read on Barry's suit_ , Cisco texts. Keeping her cool, she makes breakfast for herself, sitting at the table in one of his soft Speed-worn shirts, feet propped up on the adjacent seat, his-seat. _Send out the search party?_

She bites into a deliciously burnt piece of toast, staring at her phone sitting innocuously on the table. _No_ , she types back at last, because Jesse and Wally have been doubling down as it is, pulling later hours than they're used to to compensate for Barry's supposedly extended absence, and she doesn't want them to overwork themselves, either.

By noon, she's rescinded her choice, and still there's no sign of him.

. o .

She feels sick by that night, same-time, venturing to the same-place in the optimistic hope that maybe he's lost and needs direction, like a puppy that slipped under the fence and doesn't remember which way is home.

. o .

The next morning, their long-time barista asks, "Where's your shadow?"

Iris smiles painfully. She says, "Sick" like she has to, sick like he's not dead, sick like everything's going to be okay.

. o .

 _Where's The Flash?_ clamor his online followers, one-week-and-counting since the Crisis.

 _Missing_ , she types, like she has to. Like he's okay. Like he's not dead.

. o .

Singh doesn't ask, _Where's Allen?_

He's relieved because he thinks Barry is sick, and going to be okay, and not dead.

. o .

Eobard doesn't even ask.

He just smiles, because he knows Barry isn't sick.

. o .

 _FLASH MISSING: VANISHES IN CRISIS._

Sitting at her dad's table and staring at the headline she wrote, Iris wonders if self-fulfilling prophecies aren't a universal joke, a reminder that no matter how far the puppet strays from the strings, there will always be a catch. There will come an opportunistic moment when the world drops out from underneath them, bringing them back into step. She can almost see Barry's shadow, the ghost of Speed Force, The _Flash_ , sitting in his place on Dad's couch, gazing somberly at the space where its left leg lies, indistinct and intangible.

She says its name twice and the shadow finally turns its head to look at her. It doesn't morph, doesn't assume the shape of any Barry, even though every Barry is at its disposal. It watches her. She stands and approaches and sits next to it, needing proximity. When she leans her shoulder against it there's a firmness and promise there she doesn't expect.

Confidence and peace emanates from it. _We're here. We're right here._

Burying her face against its shoulder, she pleads, "Come home to me."

The Flash insists, _We're here_ without saying a word.

Then it rises and she sits up, letting it, reaching out to hold onto a hand that isn't there, and it looks at her and insists a third time, _We're here_ before it vanishes.

Dad climbs down the stairs and asks, "You okay, baby?"

Iris breathes in and out slowly and wills the tears not to come.

. o .

Nine days since the Crisis, and four since Barry went missing.

Iris is losing her mind.

Stupid with fatigue, she nearly overfills her cup before she pulls it away from the coffeemaker. It's a slow day at work – no big headlines to snatch a hopeful journalist's eye – which is a refreshing change of pace for a city seemingly constantly under attack. Even Kid and Quick have seemingly taken the day off, preferring to romp around the beach as their alter egos, playfully disengaged from the weight of the world.

Linda levels a sympathetic look at her when Iris turns around and Iris' throat closes up. She tries to smile but it won't come; she knows Linda doesn't expect it to.

Sinking into her seat, she fires up her computer and sorts through old files, unable to start a new project. Her work is mercifully heavy, dragging her down, down, down into the world of written affairs. She can almost lose herself in it, almost forget that something is not right with her world, almost feel _okay_.

And then, with thunderclap instantaneity, she feels it.

Out of her seat, she barely excuses herself before stepping outside, stepping only just out of sight before she takes off running, heart pounding, breath filling her lungs in ecstatic bursts because he's-here-he's-here-he's-here-oh-my-God—

She flies down the streets, sprinting up a familiar staircase at the back of Jitters, and is breathless by the time she shoves open the door to the rooftop.

He's there, turning to look at her and saying, "I'm so sorry, I got lost, Iris, _Iris_ —"

He catches her when she closes the gap between them and hugs him, almost taking him to the ground, too shaken to cry, too relieved to stay silent. "I thought I lost you, I thought I _lost you_."

He rubs her back, a low Speed-purr deep in his chest, exuding gratitude and joy and apology. "I'm right here," he promises. "I'm right here."

It's like they have to say it twice, once for him and once for the Speed which stands inescapably with him, and she cups his face and presses her forehead against his.

They don't need words for it, then; because he's _home_.

. o .

She was wrong, in a way.

In the Speed Force, all speedsters are dead. There are simply no parameters to quantify living: no breath to draw, no heart to beat, no body to express a coherent form. How can one be alive without them? And yet Barry was inarguably present. Awake. _Aware_. Neither dead nor alive, but somewhere in between, something beyond.

Courting the Speed Force and his city, the worldly and otherworldly and the point of contact between them, he's not really _either_.

And he's both. He is very decidedly both.

There's fire in his eyes when he limps, a determination that supersedes and concedes to the things he cannot change, and Iris waits until he steps forward, suited up, before she cups his face again and looks into those brilliant hazel eyes.

"Are you sure?" she asks.

Nodding once, he flashes a smile. "Never more."

It's the first time he's worn the suit since That Night, since the world changed, _since-the-world-fell-out-from-underneath-her_ , but standing on firm ground with him, she realizes she can't hide him, and he can't spare her.

Their lives are imperfect entanglements, approximations of normal that tango with the supernatural.

But telling The Flash, "Go," feels like a declaration, a stand against the universe that would separate them. "And come home to me," she insists to Barry.

He presses their foreheads together, one-last-time, for-good-luck, and vanishes.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** What a treat. I feel I should write something profound! But truthfully, I'm glad you read this fic and I genuinely hope you enjoyed it. Cheers to our next adventure.

Affectionately and forever yours,  
trufflemores

* * *

"Hey," The Flash says, crouching beside the crushed car door with exquisite care, "hey, it's okay."

In the midnight darkness, half-conscious, the middle-aged woman tilts her head towards him. With delirious wonder, she remarks, "I'm dreaming."

The Flash smiles a little. "I wish you were," he admits. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay? Don't move." In a – well, _Flash_ , he's there, the door pried clear off. He unbuckles her seatbelt and shuffles closer.

Reaching up, she cups a bloodied hand to his cheek. "You're missing."

"I was," The Flash says, holding her hand there for a moment, red glove masking the red blood, before gently laying it back at her side. "I'm back now." Shuffling forward, he gets his head and shoulders inside the car, suddenly very close, a lightning creature, ethereal, _mythical_ , and she doesn't have time to ask where he was before she's whisked away.

She opens her eyes and Flash is gone, a-dream, her gaze fixed on the burning car as she sits in the grass sixty yards away.

Minutes later, an EMT sweeps in. She says, "I saw him."

She never clarifies.

. o .

Just off the playground beside a big white oak, The Flash in full regalia ties a five-year-old boy's shoelaces for him. "I tripped," the boy admits.

"S'okay. I do, too." Sitting back on his haunches slowly, Flash smiles at him. "You good?"

The boy nods once and says, "I wanna be fast like you."

The Flash replies, "I wanna be brave like you."

The boy puffs up his chest and a shout of his name draws him back onto the playground.

No one sees how gingerly The Flash stands.

. o .

"Let me help," The Flash says at sunrise, and the old woman looks over at him and smiles a little.

"Thought you weren't coming back this time."

"And miss my favorite girls?" The Flash replies, smiling back with a bag of chicken feed over his shoulder, scooping out a handful of grains for the hens near his feet. "Not a chance."

. o .

Sans stolen cash, the twenties-something shoplifter sits on the darkened curb and puts his hands to his forehead. "Shit."

Seated next to him, The Flash replies without looking at him, "They're gonna process you." Sirens blare in the distance. His curbside companion doesn't try to run. There's no point. "The cops. You're going to go with them. You're going to plead guilty and you're going to do whatever probation they put you on. You may face jail time. You're going to do that, too, if need be. You may have a fine. You're going to pay that. And then, once you've done all that, you're going to walk out of the legal system and live the rest of your life." The Flash looks at him and finishes, "It's going to stay with you, but you're more than your scars. Don't let this be the defining moment of your life."

The Flash vanishes just before the cops arrive. The shoplifter stays and lets himself be taken away.

. o .

A beagle's tail whaps happily against The Flash's chest as he carries "Scout" home to the address on her collar.

It's late when they arrive, but her owners are still delighted to see them.

. o .

On the sixth day of his return, just over two weeks since the Crisis, Cisco asks, "Are you sure?" and Barry holds onto him for a full minute and promises, "Never more."

Eobard says, "Back at it, Flash?" and Barry replies, "Let's be better. This time, let's be better."

Wally and Jesse insist, "You can take more time," but Barry clasps their shoulders and tells them, "I'm sure."

Joe reminds, "Be careful," and Barry nods and lets Joe hug him as tightly as he dares.

"Easy, speedster," Cindy concurs, and Barry hugs her, too.

At last it's just Iris, and it feels like goodbye, but she cradles his face and he bows so she can kiss his forehead. "I trust you," she says, and he squeezes her waist and gently, gently lets go.

Then he steps away from all of them, and smiles, and takes off into the night, two yellow streaks following, _we're a team._

And Barry's right: they're ready.

. o .

It's the shortest article she's ever written. She doesn't expect them to accept it, but almost as soon as it's submitted, CCPN has it at the top of their webpage.

Excluding titles, it's only seven words.

 _FLASH BACK_

May 2, 2024

By Iris West-Allen

 _Central City's finest is back in town._

Everyone knows, and the world finally exhales.

Iris lets out a deep breath and glances down at the sleeping speedster at her side. She sets her phone on the side table next to the couch, amused that he dozed off on her, literally on top of her, _I'm not gonna fall asleep_ a distant humored mumble that tapered into soft Speed-purrs, little healing sounds working to counteract the strain of his very existence. Brushing a hand through his hair, loving, loving, _loving_ him with every fiber of who she is and every exhale of who she wants to be, she knows he feels the same way.

She lets him sleep, and for the first time in a long time, when she joins him, she finds peace.


End file.
